


Her Angel

by Bopdawoo



Series: Original Works Of Mine [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, HI I WRITE ORIGINAL WORKS TOO, I'M BEGGING YOU TO READ THIS I WORKED HARD ON IT, also we got content warnings for religiously motivated violence and also talk of death, if you like kid icarus you'll like this i promise, just not right now :(, motherly goddess and small son angel? no i've never seen this anywhere else why do you ask haha, overall this is not a very happy work but i promise they get a happy ending some day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22810165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bopdawoo/pseuds/Bopdawoo
Summary: A new angel has just gained his wings, and she does not want him here. Not just yet. And yet, there is nothing she can do.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Male Character
Series: Original Works Of Mine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639849
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Her Angel

A new angel has just gained his wings.  


A new angel has just gained his wings, and she does not want him here. Not just yet, not nearly so soon. She should have tried harder to keep him away from here.

And yet, there’s nothing more she can do now. So, Amaya sits on the stone steps leading up to her temple, listens to the burble of water from the gardens, and waits for him to appear. Soon enough she watches a little white light float up the wooded path, rushing and bobbing as if carried by a river; it drifts through the moss-covered stone gateway and stops near the bottom of the steps, and in a flash it disappears and leaves him in its place. He stumbles, disoriented, and her heart aches as she looks him over for the first time.  


He’s a skinny little thing. Dark, curly brown hair, a splash of freckles across his sunburned cheeks and shoulders. A thin ornate robe of blue and gold thread draped over his shoulders and swirling symbols of white and red on his skin. His wings are tawny-colored, light undersides with darker speckles and tips that bring to mind a hawk. His eyes are wide, and green, and they dart about the space until they land on her, and he trembles.  


In a small voice he asks, “Are you my Goddess?”  


“Yes,” Amaya replies, and pats the stone steps beside her. “Would you like to sit down?”  


He hesitates with a blink, but with a step forward he nears. Four steps up—halfway to her—she watches one of his knees wobble and he disguises his tumble as a low bow, and she’s already stood to help him back up when he speaks.  


“Y-Your Holiness and Grace Amaya,” he stammers, “I live to serve you. Whatever your wish may be, I am prepared to do my utmost to see it fulfilled.”  


She does not care; his ability to serve her is meaningless for now. Right now her highest priority is getting him cleaned up and settled in. As she kneels by him he stiffens and she refrains from touching him; instead she asks, “Is your knee alright?”  


She hears the little breath he takes before he lies, “I am fine, my Goddess.”  


She does not push him for honesty. Instead she says, “Walk with me, please,” and he stands so quickly she worries he’ll overbalance and knock himself over. But he stands well enough, and like a duckling right behind its mother he follows her up the remainder of the steps into her temple’s front atrium. She slows her pace so that he can appreciate his first moments in his goddess’ temple, and the way his eyes light up lifts her heart a little. The light pouring down through the enormous skylight and the curtain of vining plants draping down from the planters on the second floor balconies make for an impressive entryway, even though the sight has long since become familiar to her. And though they think themselves sneaky, she knows several of her angels are hiding up on the balcony watching them enter. Simply too curious to reign themselves in and give him some space, she supposes. It’s not every day a new angel gains his wings.  


She lets him gawk for several moments longer before leading him down a hallway to the side. After a moment’s thought Amaya pauses and he stands rigidly at attention. She extends a welcoming hand to him. “Walk by my side, not behind me.”  


And he says, “Yes, my Goddess,” and scrambles to be at her side. She notices he still tries to subtly hang back, but her hand at the small of his back gently nudges him forwards.  


“Tell me about yourself,” she prompts.  


“I have devoted my life and... and my death to serving you, my Goddess.”  


“I do not mean about your devotion,” she amends, gently, “I mean about _yourself._ ”  


He’s quiet for a few moments; she watches him bite his lip. Finally he begins, “My name is Gabe. I turned fifteen years old this morning. I’m… I can sing, and do scribe work, and tend animals and crops as well.”  


She nods with an encouraging smile. “And what do you enjoy doing?”  


“I enjoy all of these things, my Goddess. And I enjoy serving you.”  


Not an answer she was entirely hoping for, but one she expected nonetheless. She guides him through an open doorway, across a veranda, and out into a small courtyard shaded by arching trees. Rising on the opposite side of the yard is a rock formation housing a spring, burbling down into a gently swirling pool ringed with reeds. There’s a stretch close to them where large flat stones lead into the water like steps, and standing nearby is another angel. Her hair is short and her wings blue and black like a jay, and she holds a small cloth bundle in her grip. Her eyes linger on Gabe as they approach; Amaya accepts the bundle with thanks, and the angel bows and quietly leaves them.  


She sits on the flat stones and pats the space next to her before unwrapping the cloth bundle. Soft rag, salve, linen bandages, and a milky pink potion. Gabe has taken a seat, perched rigidly on the edge of the step and looking very much like a little sparrow caught in the sights of a hunting cat. She swirls the potion’s little glass flask, uncorks it, and hands it to him. “Drink this,” she instructs. “It will numb your pain.”  


He hesitates if only for a moment, then downs the potion in three gulps. She’s scarcely taken the flask from his hand when it takes effect, and his body visibly untenses as he lets out a shuddering sigh. With one hand she steadies him and with the other she wets the rag in the clear water, and she asks to see his arm. Gabe obliges and holds out his left; she takes a moment to survey the holy symbols snaking across his skin before she takes the rag and wipes them away.  


Gabe startles as he watches her undo the marks. “My Goddess? H-Have we done something wrong?” he frets. “Is this not to your liking?”  


None of this is to her liking. And yet, there is nothing she can do.  


Amaya has to take a moment before she answers him; even with his pain numbed she still wants to be careful scrubbing around the deep cuts. She tells him, “You and your people have done nothing wrong. I don’t want you to worry about whether you’ve upset me, Gabe.”  


“But…” Confusion flits across his face. “Why do you remove the paint?”  


“Your wounds must be cleaned before I can dress them.”  


His mouth works a little but no sound comes out at first. “I… I bore these wounds in your honor, my Goddess. To prove my devotion to you.”  


She barely suppresses a wince, but knows some emotion must have made it onto her face. She rinses the cloth in the clear water and then wipes it over a fresh wound, carved into his skin in the shape of a swirling sigil. She finally says, “You should not have to be injured to prove your devotion.”  


Gabe is silent and doesn’t meet her eyes, and she continues to wash away streaks of paint and blood. The courtyard is quiet aside from the gentle gurgle of the spring; the reeds and windchimes stay silent in the still air. Amaya is the one to break it; applying some salve onto his cleaned forearm she asks, “Are you cold at all?”  


Gabe shifts a bit. “A little.”  


She nods and pauses her ministrations long enough to remove her shawl and drape it over his own shoulders. Gabe already has a look of surprise writ across his face and she assures, “Just until I have warmer clothing prepared for you. When did you eat last?”  


Gabe takes a moment to settle, and she snugs the soft fabric around his neck before reaching for the bandages. Gabe answers finally, “The high priests call for a day’s fast before a holy sacrifice.”  


She nods, begins wrapping his arm. He’ll need something light, easy to keep down after all this. Perhaps apple slices and some plain rice or biscuits. “When did you sleep last?”  


“I have spent the last day reciting prayer in your honor.”  


She knows; she heard every word of it. She’ll have to make sure he knows where the temple’s living quarters are. Amaya finishes wrapping his one arm, rinses her cloth, begins anew on his other. “Who gave you these marks?”  


She knows the answer, but she wants to hear it from his mouth, from his understanding.  


Gabe explains, “Many in my faith. My mother, my father, the high priests of the temple. Some of them I gave to myself.”  


She nods, rinses her cloth again. “Were they responsible for your death as well?”  


“Yes.”  


“Why?”  


“I-It was to appease you, my Goddess,” he says, and his voice gets quieter. “The drought’s gone on for four months now. We had hoped a more substantial offering would be enough.”  


An _offering._ So that’s what he sees himself as.  


She wants to tell herself that it’s her fault, that he wouldn’t have been an _offering_ had she just tried harder, but she knows that kind of thinking is useless currently.  


And yet, she can’t help as her eyes trail over him, taking in wounds she has not tended yet. Just barely hidden by his thin robe, masked by thick blood splatter, is a deep stab wound that plunges into his chest like a chasm. Through it she sees fragments of broken ribs and a gash through his heart, which still stubbornly twitches despite there not being much blood left to pump.  


She thanks the strength of the pain-numbing potion, and knows she’ll have to brew more until that closes up. How long that’ll take she’s not sure.  


Her eyes find their way up to his face and she takes a good long look at him.  


_‘I turned fifteen years old this morning,’_ he had said.  


He’s so young, it _hurts._  


“Gabe,” she starts, and keeps her voice very gentle. “This will be hard for you to hear.” She watches him stiffen, and a flicker of fear crosses his face. She confesses, “I am sorry for how your people have suffered, and I am sorry that you met your death so early, but... There is nothing I can do about the drought.”  


The shock lights up his green eyes like a lightning strike, and he reels. “I- my Goddess-” he gasps. “Y-You control the rains.”  


“I control the rains, yes,” she explains, “but not the wind that carries them.”  


Slowly, comprehension dawns on his face, and Gabe wilts, gaze casting downwards. He has to take a few breaths before he says, “There’s been no wind for four months.”  


She nods. The reeds and windchimes are silent.  


How must that feel, she wonders, to sacrifice your very life for your people, only to discover that it ultimately meant nothing?  


She will never know, and Gabe never should have known.  


He’s shaking. She feels the tremor in his limbs as she holds his injured arm. His eyes are distant, and his breaths come shallower. It’s all hitting him, finally. She doubts he’s even had time to process his own death. Just thrown right out of his mortal body and into the temple of his goddess without even a chance to catch his breath, the poor thing.  


“Deep breaths, Gabe,” she says gently, and squeezes his shaking hands as he tries. “In through the nose and out through the mouth. There you go, Gabe. There you go.” She doubts he’s realized that he’s leaning on her for support now, shuddering against her side as she subtly adjusts her position to better support him. The blood from his untreated injuries soaks into her robes, and she doesn’t care.  


He gasps, “I was so scared,” and she believes him.  


“It’s okay to be scared,” she keeps her voice gentle, and rubs little circles on his back between his wings. “It’s okay to be scared, and you’re safe now.”  


His head bobs with a shaky nod, and still she feels like she hasn’t done enough.  


The afterlife, she supposes, was made with a peaceful death in mind. You lay down in your bed, old and worn and at peace, and that is all you know before you wake up in the next life. They are the lucky ones, those who don’t have to carry the memories of drowning at sea, of a missed step at a height, of watching your own body fail as it succumbs to something the healers have never seen. Your own parents driving a ceremonial knife through your heart to appease a deity.  


Gabe is safe now, yes, but not by any measure _okay. Okay_ will require time.  


A new angel has just gained his wings, and she does not want him here. He’s here anyways and she welcomes him, for it’s all she can do.


End file.
